Christmas and Crooks
by Wordwielder
Summary: December prompts, from Hades' challenge.
1. Arson

"..the wife stands firm the bonfire had been extinguished and the husband stands firm to the opposite. The question is, Holmes, which-"

"It was arson," Sherlock Holmes said loftily, rifling through his sundry papers and pamphlets, and proceeding to drape over the settee's arms.

Lestrade gazed indignantly at the detective before turning to the meeker dcotor, who was wearing a grimace, Lestrade presumed over his companion's behavior.

"Lestrade," Watson began gently.

Lestrade recognized that apologetic posture and became to sputter. "Oh, no, don't defend him," he snapped.

Sherlock began to laugh, and even Watson's lip began to curve into a smile. It progressed into both of them curle dover, howling.

"The bloody hell?" Lestrade demanded.

"It was arson," Sherlock repeated.

Watson concluded, still chuckling, "It rained last night, Lestrade."


	2. Mirror

The mirror has been romanticized in thousands of novels, to a degree many an enlightened man imagines himself to see his soul rising into his eyes or an epiphany hitting him while examining his appearance. Narcissists seek the mirror's charms and even a humble man may linger before it.

As a man who must often rely on mirrors to layer myself beneath a disguise, I have been an often if not active observer of my reflection. A dab of chalk here, a freckle over the eye, careful tricks to change my essential look. I futhermore require it to wipe myself back into my own appearance. It is clear I frequent the position before it often enough. Over the years, I've noted the miniscule changes that move into the noticeable, lines slowly etching into smooth skin. Age catches us all.

I have even developed smile lines.

Blame Watson for it.


	3. Invisible Ink

In all my years of acquaintance and kinship with Sherlock Holmes, I often still find myself at loss as to his great brain's remarkable processes. The reader probably underestimates Holmes, citing me as dramatic or overexcited; all who know him can assure you he is quite accurately portrayed in my sketches, even him. He may dismiss my reports of the cases, but he has never yet protested my handling of his character. Lestrade assures me I overestimate him.

One such time he astonished me during the case of the man with the invisible ink. Gregson had been assigned the case, and stopped in during a frigid evening, his nose comically red. He was smiling, however, and upon receiving a warm cocoa, launched into the case's particulars. "We've had a puzzler today," he announced, "but we got our man."

Holmes smiled, not in malice but an amused interest. "Is that so?" he inquired, sipping into his tea. "Pray tell."

An America, a Walter Ferrier, had been found floating in the Thames, evidently shoved from the dock. He was found fairly quickly after drowning. His pockets contained his identification, soggy but readable, a key to his current place of lodging, a pocket watch, and a few notes. Thus far was ordinary; but the bottle of ink and creased parchment found in the other pocket was notable. "The ink was gone," Gregson said, "The cork was loose enough to wash the ink from the bottle into the water, leaving only murky water behind in the bottle. The papers' exposure to the water evidently washed the messages off. "

"How did you find your man?" I asked. Holmes had forgotten his tea in is hand and was listening attentively.

"Ferrier's landlady reported a man letting himself into Ferrier's apartment who she had never seen before. Alarmed, she contacted the authorities, as the only possessor of any key was Mr. Ferrier and herself. We picked him up there. He was tearing the place up, looking for valuables. 'I must have it!' we heard him yelling. 'Where? Where?' He was arrested and when we checked his identification, he was revealed to be Thorton Hop, the deceased's brother in law. His sister has recently been abandoned by Mr. Ferrier, and her wealth disappeared with him. Witnesses spotted him at the dock Ferrier's body was found by, and he had a key in his possession he could have only taken from Ferrier. He also had a vial of pills he tried to conceal from us; we believe he would use it to commit suicide before trial. He must have been trying to catch him and Ferrier ran again, leading to an altercation ultimately resulting in Hop pushing Ferrier off the docks."

Holmes stood, pale, and infuriated. "You should have come to me," he snapped. "You've imprisoned a man for a crime that never happened."

Gregson and I blinked as he threw on his overcoat and bounded into the snow. We followed, and Holmes explained the whole story to the prison warden:

"Walter Ferrier is an alias," Holmes said. "Ralf Werterrier is Ferrier's true identity. He is a German, prominent in the field of mental health. He had been researching schizophrenia for a decade before he dropped off the map. Ralf changed his name and married Hop's sister—a patient diagnosed with schizophrenia. He used her as research, tested his drugs on her, and when he had developed a proper medicine—" here he held up the vial—"he took her money and returned to Europe. His suspicious brother-in-law followed. Ralf knew his practices were unethical, and Hop would destroy his credibility in Europe. He concealed all records by writing in invisible ink."

"The paper and bottle!" cried Gregson.

"He hid the bottle and went to the river to dispose of his papers—for even concealed they could be discovered as incriminating. There Hop caught up to him—and rather than have to kill Hop and run, he jumped into the water to escape. Unfortunately, he hit his head and fell unconscious, and drowned. Hop waded into the water, took his spare key, and found the pills that had cost his sister so much. There, he was discovered, and booked on circumstantial evidence."

Hop cried, "It's all true!"

He was promptly released, and Gregson hastily retreated home.

Only later did I think of the extraordinary quick wit of my companion. Should I ask him? Not tonight; tonight I would not question.

**I know I'm behind...I'll catch up. This one took far longer to write than I anticipated, and it's not my best. **


	4. Fruitcake

"Don't even, Sherlock Holmes, this recipe has remained secret since my great-grandmother wrote it down and I will not share a single ingredient!"

"Mrs. Hudson, I won't sell it on the black market," Holmes chuckled. "I am conducting research to see why the majority of the populace denounces fruitcake. I must isolate its ingredients to deduce which causes the offence."

"You and the doctor like my fruitcake; I'm not concerned about the general populace."

"Mrs. Hudson…"

"Mr. Holmes…"

"Brown sugar; you have bought a large quantity and you rarely use it."

Mrs. Hudson brandished her spoon. "Out of my kitchen."

He backed into the hallway.

"Out of my sight as well!"  
He stood by the doorframe.

"Pineapple, I recall. Walnuts…eggs, baking powder, and flour. They have a slight texture difference, you know. That's how I deduced that you used both, despite their identical colors."

In the kitchen, she cracked an egg.

"Dried fruits…raisins and cherries, I do think. Several varieties of both?"

She sighed.

"And of course you need shortening for cake…" He paused. "Now that I have deduced all but a few of the ingredients, maybe you'll consider revealing the rest?"

Watson came downstairs, tracking the smells from the kitchen. "Ah, she's baking again," he said happily. "I smell vanilla—are you making fruitcake, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Vanilla ,too," Holmes called.

Mrs. Hudson emerged and said shortly, "A teaspoon salt." And then she marched back into the kitchen, leaving Holmes victorious…

She took out her small flask and smiled. "And the secret ingredient," she whispered. "Caribbean rum."

** Alice Wright: Holmes is on the case...of what is in the fruitcake.**


	5. Gutter

Holmes clumped up the 17 steps to Baker Street, his trousers coated in frozen sludge, his hat askew, his face smudged and his eyes tired. He positively walked past Mrs. Hudson, not hearing her entreaty for him to stop and let her take off his coat. He dragged into the sitting room, where Watson was reading the paper he discarded this morning. "Hullo Holmes," greeted Watson. "Mrs. Hudson made some delicious snicker doodles."

Holmes' only response was the whine of his boots scratching the carpet. He entered his room, where he seldom spent very much time. Curiosity and a bit of worry aroused, Watson flopped down the rag and followed him.

Holmes lay motionless on his bed, his face buried into a pillow.

"Holmes?" Watson ventured.

He lifted his head.

"Good God, you look like you've been rolling around in a gutter!"

He sank back into the sheet, muffling his answer:

"Maybe I have."

** "Gutter"- from Rockztar.**

**And in responce to request, the earlier prompts:**

**December 1st- the Inner Titan-Arson**

**Dec 2nd-I'm Nova-Mirror**

**Dec 3rd-Werepanther33-a dead man has inviisble ink in his pocket, why?**

**Gonna try to catch up today, guys. **


	6. Pink

Pink- She WhoScrawls

London's choir societies during Christmastime take to frequenting a street and spreading cheer in the form of carols. Baker Street was adopted by a finishing school for young ladies. I tipped my hat to them as I walked to and from the practice, and they became fairly accustomed to seeing me.

Holmes is not misogynistic by any means; he greeted the ladies on his one sojourns. One in particular, an Alexandra Parquet, took a fancy to him. She would sing extra loudly as he passed and would grant him a smile perhaps meant to suggest more than the Christmas spirit.

One night after a trip to see a violin concert, Miss Parquet, carrying brown parcels, waved to us from the other side of the street. Two gentlemen, we hurried to relieve her of the weight. "Thank you both, gentlemen," she said with impeccable inflection one notes among school girls.

"Where are you headed?" I asked.

"Just down the road..."

We carried her gifts to her door, with me first. She piled them in the threshold and I stepped back to allow Holmes to bring the rest.

"Good night, Miss Parquet," Holmes began, steeping out of the doorway.

"Mister Holmes, look," she cried delightedly. "Mistletoe!"

She dove in and kissed his cheek.

His cheeks could have been pink from the chill, but I suspect otherwise…


	7. Snowed In

"How are you so bloody good at poker?" I complained, sliding my pieces to Holmes' side of the table. Fortunately, we had settled on rocks representing our bids, not actual money, or I would be well on my way to destitute.

He smirked. "It goes with my profession, my dear Watson. You need to work on your tics. Are you ready to withdraw?"

"Oh, no. We're snowed in, and before we're shoveled out, I intend to win back my rocks. The game is afoot."

Holmes smiled and lay down his three kings.

"Damn it!"

**"Snowed in"-from ME!**


	8. Baritsu

Charles Holmes shrugged out of his overcoat and snow-caked boots, gave his boys an obligatory hug, and his wife a quick kiss. "It's wonderful to see England again," he declared. Mycroft, age 13, and Sherlock, age 6, eyed past their father's legs to the piles of brown parcels mixed among his luggage.

Whenever their father traveled, he came back with fantastic gifts he picked up. Mycroft and Sherlock had come to expect him to bring things back for them to see. Their father ruffled his sons' hair absently, and waved them off. "Yes, I brought you gifts. Dig in. As shall I," he added to his wife Adelaide, "into this excellent repast. How one misses home's food abroad."

Mycroft hunted for the dried fruit and gourmet cheeses his father would have brought from Nice; Sherlock rummaged into the box labeled Morocco, examining the various curiosities both he and his father harbored a fascination for. Under a Moroccan rug his mother would surely banish to the study, were several dusty volumes. He pulled them out, dusting them off.

"Ah," his father said through a mouth of potato. He swallowed. "I got those in a market in the Indies. The price was quite cheap, considering the rarity of a few. If you see any of interest…"

Sherlock held up one: _The Art of Baritsu_.

**December 8th: Baritsu, from Alice Wright.**


	9. Severed Hand

Looking back over an illustrious and victorious career, I only ever saw Holmes truly close to being unhinged once.

I entered to find Holmes extraordinarily pale, his eyes so large and dark I feared he had injected himself with a dangerous amount of cocaine. Adding to my fear, he started to laugh, a hysterical fit that abruptly ended before his eyes glazed over again.

"Holmes!" I cried—I imagine I fairly screamed it.

"Hullo Watson," he said faintly. Relieved he could identify me, I clasped his ahnd. "What's the matter, Holmes?"

"The box," he answered in the same faint voice. "An eye for an eye." Further worried, I reached for the parcel that looked as though it had been flung away and left on the floor. The address read Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221B, Baker Street, London.

Spilling out of the box was a severed human hand, beckoning to me with clawing fingers.

I looked at my trembling friend, and I understood. He had dispatched Moriarty and Moran, and still the great detective had ruthless enemies. He always would.

He also would always have a loyal friend.

**Another very difficult one to write. This is December 9th, from Sparky Dorian: Someone mails a parcel containing a severed hand to 221B, addressed to Holmes.**


	10. 221B

"TO BATTLE!"

Scotland Yard ducked as they were barraged by a small army of boys. "Duck!" roared Lestrade, looking a little bewildered. The Irregulars, out of fuel, ran back to the mastermind, plotting the downfall of his crime fighting brothers. Meanwhile, Watson patted snow into perfectly round balls. Holmes scratched a hasty diagram in the snow as the Yard fumbled to regain their balance. "Divide and conquer, boys. The great words of Napoleon Bonaparte." Watson loaded each boy with an armful of snow and sent them out of the base.

"This really was rather clever, Holmes, old boy," Watson said, flinching as one of the boys was battered. "We mastermind it all, we give the boys a day of fun, us amusement, the Yard a challenge, and we get to simply enjoy the day a bit."

"THERE ARE THE BUNGLERS!"

"Run, blokes!" cried their boys.

Holmes and Watson jumped, forced to abandon their handsomely designed snow fort that had served as a lovely base. They fled, jumping over snow piles, as their defense battled bravely. "Back," Holmes cried over the babble. "Back, you BUNGLERS!" Holmes stooped, grabbed ammunition, and flung it through the balsams. Watson laughed breathily before grabbing snow and taking position at Holmes' unprotected back.

"We will win," roared Lestrade, who was charging like a bull. Watson and Holmes pelted him, laughing buoyantly.

"I don't want to eat beetroot," replied Holmes, letting out a banzai as he hit Lestrade's beard.

"Neither do I," he responded, retaliating with snowballs that bounced. This was their punishment to the loser of the bet. Watson and Holmes sought refuge in a bank. The pileup of snow would do little to conceal their berth.

"We'll get you, boys!"

"Quit your ballyhoo!" Holmes bellowed.

"BOYS," Mrs. Hudson called, "I have nice gingerbread men. And little girls and boys. And cocoa and cookies….oh, isn't the snow beautiful? Come in, boys. Take off your boots."

**This was really fun, if hard, to write. From Rockztar - Write a 221B where the last word of every sentence begins with B. including the sentence, "I don't want to eat beetroot!"**

**Wow, I just realized the key word there was 221B. I AM NOT REDOING THIS. It's only like 80 words over...**

"This battle—" Lestrade began.

"Will resume until you've all been banished," Watson grinned as he collected the stray bairns.


	11. Stray

The tabby eyed the tall man from the shadows. An unusual selection for a companion, but the tabby knew a kindred spirit, and furthermore he smelled of fish. The very fresh-off-the-wharf fish he had been spoiled with as a kitten, when he had been ignorant to London chills and the bristly feel of rat fur on his tongue. This man, despite his fishy smell, was not a cuddly man, hard to charm. But it could be done; Tabby could charm anyone.

Tabby padded silently out of his alleyway after the man. His nose twitched with the familiar smell of pipe tobacco. He followed for a time before the human turned. He allowed him to observe him, and he observed back.

"Stray, I presume," he said. Tabby swished his tail.

"Very well," he said, and began to walk again.

Tabby followed him at a lofty distance for a while, slowly working up to being almost beside him. The human made no objection.

When the human turned his key in his residence's lock, Tabby twined over his legs and inside. The man smiled. "Persistance is a quality I admire, cat," he said.

He allowed Tabby into the sitting room. The cat spotted a bearskin rug before the fire and curled up. Holmes sat amongst his papers and worked, and Tabby dozed.

They shared the fish purchased at the wharf.

**Prompt: "A stray comes to visit Holmes..." from Rocktzar, December 11th.** **This cat may became canonical for me. I dig him. **


	12. Seven Sorts

Seven sorts run in and out of 221B, up and down the seventeen steps. Seven sorts interupt at all hours. Seven sorts cause Mrs. Hudson grief and laughter, and seven sorts make the flat a little livelier.

The first sort is middle-aged gentlemen, usually in various stages of panic; they inquire after Mr. Holmes, and if he's not in leave gold-embossed cards to announce their visit. The matter is urgent, they insist.

The second sort is the grimy and grim of the criminal underworld, and their slick masterminds.

The third sort is the grimy and grinning and growing, the Irregulars that snatch cookies and eavesdrop as a habit. Little snippets of people who will one day grow up, but they solemnly swear not until they have to get married. "Why weren't you ever married, Mister 'olmes?"

"He has no heart," Watson nimbly put in.

The fourth is young, beautiful ladies in their finery and good frocks, with a light sheen of perspiration on their foreheads; their matters is surely are urgent, and they too, leave their cards.

The fifth is Yarders and Inspectors, hot on the case (or so they may think), again seeking the detective's expertise.

The sixth is the course youth of London, with scarred hands, determined eyes, and lined skin. These are who Holmes really enjoys. Their problems are genuine and interesting and they themselves are as well.

The seventh sort is bright-eyed partners, sometimes alone and sometimes together, sometimes wielding revolver or stick; sometimes in unrecognizable disguise; sometimes out after the case or a good evening out.

But the warmth of home is only enriched by bustle.

**Prompt: Seven Sorts, 221B style. This one IS exactly 221 words. YEAHHHHH. From Werepanther33.**

**AND GUESS WHO'S CAUGHT UP? Can I get a WHOHOOO! here?**


	13. Gingerbread Men

"Look, Watson, it's you!"

Holmes held a stout gingerbread man.

Watson glared.

Holmes seized Mrs. Hudson's piping gel and adorned the gingerbread man with a mustache. "Now it's really you."

Watson, in spite of himself, laughed, seizing the pipe gel from Holmes. He picked up a tall, skinny gingerbread man. "Here's you, Holmes!" He had squeezed a hooked nose and a manifying glass into its hand.

Holmes took it back and added a pipe to its mouth.

Watson, with mischevious yes, dotted a needle into Holmes' other hand.

"Good Lord, Watson, I assure you I would not partake in tobacco and cocaine at once." As he spoke, he added a pencil to the Watson cookie's hand.

Mrs. Hudson entered with another tray and saw their handiwork. "Boys," she cried, exasperated. "You're suppsoed to eat them!"

In response, they both the gingerbread men into their mouths.

**Aleine Skyfire- Gingerbread Men.**


	14. Revenge

"AUGHHHH!" I yelped as a deluge of frigid water cascaded over my face and hair, seeping into my pillow and bedclothes and drenching my pajama collar. "Holmes!" I yelled, certain he was at the root of this.

"Ah, you're awake," he answered calmly.

"I bloody well am!" I snapped, reaching for dressing gown to mop my face.

"Dress, and quickly- the cab's waiting," he directed.

"Would it have been just too much to just shake me?"I muttered.

"Yes- we haven't the time. Hurry and dress!" He exited my room with long strides.

"You just hurry me all you want!" I called. "I'll get you back later for this, and just you wait!"

He poked his head around the door frame, smirking. "Really."

"Oh yes," I replied. "When you least it expect it."

Holmes raised an eyebrow, amused. "You lack the patience."

"Just you wait," I insisted.

He clearly did believe I lacked such diligence; for two days, he did nothing without first checking, and he would not was fairly prostrate with exhaustion. Bleary eyed, he requested, "Dear Watson, would you please take your revenge already? I am quite exhausted and could use some rest."

I grinned. "Have you had a throughly miserable two days?"

"Yes," he muttered.

"Consider my revenge taken."

**From cjnwriter - Holmes wakes up Watson by dumping water on his head. How does Watson get revenge? So being on time lasted sooo long, right? Trying to catch up. Again...**


	15. Chess

It was cruelly **unjust**. The endless **humiliation** brought game after game. How certain he'd be that he'd defeat his opponent, anticipating that confident smile **falter** into a **crestfallen** expression...but alas, all he'd see was a leering grin as his brilliant move was countered with a clever invasion. After each parry, he leaned forward, morbidly **curious **to see the next move of his opponent. How much **preparation** went into each move, and yet how easily he was defeated! The **wrath** he felt at the conclusion of each game almost alarmed him.

His wife reclined back, examining the chessboard with a satisfied smile before picking up her notepad she wrote stories for the ladies' magazines in. "Does '**mist** across the **midnight skies**' sound too lurid?" she asked.

Lestrade scowled. "Why do I keep playing with you?"

"Because you love me," she replied.

"You say," he muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing, dear," he sighed. "Rematch?"

**From Lemon Zinger - Ten Word Challenge: Unjust, Endless, Crestfallen, Falter, Curious, Preparation, Wrath, Skies, Mist, Midnight**


	16. Ornithphobia

The case brought I, Holmes, and Lestrade to a quant farm. We were discussign the case's particulars when a goose landed on the pond bank in front of us. Lestrade jumped backwards, his face a mask of terror.

Holmes and I stopped and stared.

"Ornithphobia?" Holmes inquired. "Or is it just geese?"

"Geese," Lestrade gasped.

"Ah...why?" I asked.

Lestrade swallowed, still eyeing the goose in the pond's shallows. "I had an aunt who raised poultry. I came for a visit when I was eight or so, and she asked me to feed the geese. They saw the pail and just swarmed me! They bit me- I still have a scar, to this day- and they flapped their wings and screeched these awful screeches until I was curled on the ground praying to live to see Christmas. Finally my aunt came to see what held me up. She herded all the geese away and got me up and when I told my story, she laughed!"

"Tragic," Holmes said. "Shall we return to the case? The goose is no longer in our path of travel."

I patted Lestrade's shoulder. "Holmes is right. We'll keep you away from geese form now on. That was thirty years ago, anyway."

The goose ruffled its feathers; Lestrade winced.

**From SheWhoScrawls - Lestrade elaborates on a childhood experience which has caused his fear of geese.**


	17. Loss

"Have heart, boys, at least we won't **starve,**" the Lieutenant tried to cheer his men, doling out that night's rice. More than a few murmured excuses that they weren't hungry. "Rice is much better than gruel, eh?"

When this failed to elicit any response, he turned to a man quite good at cheering his fellows up, but John Watson was sunk deep in despair. He had failed men on the battlefield today; for every one he brought back he lost another. So many **fatalities**, so many telegraphs sent home to awaiting wives and mothers. His job was to **heal**...

The battle had been **defeaning**, making the silence around him grated his ears. The **alarm** had been raised a mere six hours prior; how could it be possible? It couldn't be called a battle, maybe not even a skirmish; it was most accurately described as a rapid and deadly firefight. They had been utterly **defeated** in no time at all.

No one was bothering to tend the fire. Watson noted absently he was **cold**, but made no move to revive the blaze.

The aura of **misery** would not be shaken, and eventually even the Lieutenant allowed himself to sink into the mire.

Watson closed his eyes, trying not to remember the **scream** of a man as a second Jezail bullet hit him the leg. Watson had to amputate, and the man screamed and screamed.

Sometimes he wondered if it was worth it to **serve**.

(Many years later, he would decide it certainly was.)

** From Lemon Zinger - Ten Word Challenge: Deafening, Starve, Heal, Defeated, Fatality, Alarm, Cold, Misery, Scream, Serve**

**Well, that was depressing...**


	18. The Old Russian Woman

My Boswell has often pestered me, on quiet nights, to tell of the six years of my career he was not present to document, that he views as tragic to leave only in my head. I occasionally indulge him, and he listens wide-eyed and scratches notes frantically.

One such occasion was what he termed the Adventure of the Old Russian Woman.

It was quite early in my career, when clients were few and far between; I had assisted Victor Trevor, and a few measly and largely worthless cases that required little energy. I lived at that time on Montague Street, and I was one day happily surprised by my usually curt landlady's announcement I had a visitor. As Mycroft rarely roused himself to visit me, and I had no friends to come for visits. A client!

A shrouded woman shuffled in. Her hair was wrapped in a bolt of dark cloth that complimented her deep blue, shapeless gown. Her feet were encased in chunky boots, dropping chunks of snow off of them with each step. Her skin was excessively wrinkled, and her eyes were dark and troubled. She was clearly Russian; she was ignoring her safety to protect another, probably a child, most likely her daughter; she had been educated. Her dress, her hands, and her bearing told me as much.

She spoke haltingly, with a strong accent, "Mizer Holmes?"

I stood. "Please sit, madam. Can I get you anything?"

She shook her head. "No, you are very kind. I have come long way to speak wiz you, I have heard much from English friend of mine. I apologize for errors, I learned English long ago and am not very good at it."

"How can I assist you, miss?"

"My daughter is marrying bad man," she said. "She does not vant to, but she feels bound because he will forgive our debt if she does. I marry bad man, I know. He vill hurt her- maybe kill her, for he has temper and drinks like fiend, and has already been through two vimen. I need way to prove his deeds to authorities and get him in prison, or get her away. I have tried to protect her but he has only pushed me aside. Her father is bad man, he is selfish and won't help. Please Mizer Holmes..."

That case ultimately became my first experience with a drastic disguise. I assumed the mother's identity while she and her daughter fled to London, and when the man discovered my identity and attacked me in fury, we had grounds for arrest. The father, who had joined in the fight and felt the wrath of my stick, also received a sentence. Both women were free at last.

The women were so grateful, they gave me Russian lessons for free.

**From cjnwriter- The Adventure of the Old Russian Woman (an unrecorded, pre-Watson case).**

**I'm sorry, case fics are not my thing. I might go back and elaborate later.**

**A note on Russian: in addition to having no w sound, they also have no articles.**


	19. Mince Pies

"It's just not Christmas without mince pies," Watson sighed happily as Mrs. Hudson set a platter down."My mother made them for Christmas every year."

"Mine as well," Mrs. Hudson said. "She taught me how to make them the year before I got married. How my husband loved them.."

Mycroft eyed Holmes, who eyed him back. "Our mother as well," Mycroft said. "She was fond of baking."

"She had a terrible sweet tooth," Holmes added. A glint came into his eyes. "That's where Mycroft inherited it from."

"Brother!" Mycroft threatened. Holmes took a bite of his pie and smiled.

**From Poseidon - God of the Seas - Mince pies.**

**I had to make fun of Mycroft, just a little :)**


	20. Dying Detective

**20. From Rockztar - what was going through Watson's head in the Dying Detective?**

_"He's dying, Dr. Watson," said she. "For three days he has been sinking, and I doubt if he will last the day."_

How? Holmes, dying? Holmes is human but immortal. He can survive anything!

Have I killed him? Having left him, knowing his tendencies, have I lead him to the grave? Don't be silly, old boy, he survived twenty years before you even met-

Oh, God, I've killed him! Why did no one inform me? I must go to him- I must see-

* * *

_"He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a foggy November day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt, wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a chill to my heart."_

Holmes, dear fellow,what's happened to you? Why won't you allow me to help you? it's just like ever, Holmes, I am here and you are ill and you must let me help you-

* * *

_"But facts are facts, Watson, and after all, you are only a general practitioner with limited experience and mediocre qualifications. It is painful to have say these things but you leave me no choice."_

Limited experience? I have more experience than half the surgeons in London! Afghanistan gave me more than a limp. Mediocre skills? You have benefitted from my mediocre skills yourself, Holmes!

You need me; you are ill. Let me help you- you only get worse-

* * *

_"Put it down! Down, this instant, Watson- this instant, I say!"_

Why is this little box of such importance, then? I will do as you say, Holmes- as always. I know you know best-

* * *

_"As he did so, I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror over the mantlepiece. I could have sworn it was set in a malicious and abominable smile."_

This Smith- he has a role, doesn't he, friend? He knows what ails you and why. Is this why you had me hide? Protection for me or security for you? You parley with another murderer. Ah, here comes the Yard! Good show, Holmes!

* * *

_"You won't be offended, Watson?"_

It's terrible how your explanation of your harsh words relieves me so. But yes- some roast beef at Simpson's seems perfectly in order.


	21. De-aged

**From Sparky Dorian - Holmes gets de-aged to five for a day.**

"Holmes! _Holmes! _You better listen to me, young man!" Watson cried. "Curse you, Sparky Dorian," he muttered. "Curse you, Wordwielder!" He was usually quite tolerant of the fanfictioners December fun, but de-aging Holmes? He was even more hyperactive as a child than he normally was!

"Watson," Holmes sing-songed, "Look! I mixed this with this and it'll—"

The resounding boom finished his explanation.

"Holmes! You need to sit! You can be quiet, can't you? You won't destroy things?"

Holmes poked Watson. "The man at the next table at lunch today was cheating on his wife, so I told her. I deduced it. She was very upset. So was he. Didn't I do good, Watson?"

"Wonderful, Holmes," Watson groaned. "Let's go get a cookie."

Holmes' eyes lit up. "Cookies!"

"God give me strength," Watson prayed.

***Chortles* Wow, I thought that would be so hard to write...NOPE. That was enormously amusing to me and hopefully you guys too!**


	22. Peppermint

22. From MadameGiry25 – Peppermint

Holmes opened his gift from the Irregulars. It was shoddily wrapped in newspaper and tied shut with twine, but they had somehow found a red bow to festoon it with. He pulled out a box of red foil-wrapped candies.

"We 'ope you like peppermint, Mr. 'Olmes," Wiggins said earnestly.

He smiled. "I certainly do, boys. Here—everyone have some." He passed candy into the reaching hands of all the children. The air filled with the sound of crunches from those without patience and the squelch of candy being sucked from those with it.

Watson popped a candy into his mouth and smiled. This boys proved to him that Holmes really was human.

**Awwwww :') I love the Irregulars. Back on schedule, everyone! Actaully, ahead of- I already have tomorrow's written.**


	23. Snowed Out

**23. From Werepanther33 - Christmas Eve. Holmes hasn't gotten a gift for Mycroft. Watson, mildly horrified, is determined to help.**

"I can scarcely believe the date," I remarked to Sherlock Holmes, glancing out the frosted window to the snow building onto the street. My leg promised to ached later, but I have retained childhood's fondness for snow, and I harbored no bitterness for the pain it might cause me, and instead reminded myself of the joy snow brought the Irregulars.

"What, the 24th?" Holmes asked nonchalantly. "You see, Watson, as each day passes in a month it progresses towards the 31st, and we are currently—"

"Thank you, Holmes," I cut him off. I smiled at the neatly wrapped packages under our tree (which, though scorched, was still standing, and the decorations made the blackened boughs look festive nevertheless). There were mine for Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, the Irregulars, Lestrade, Gregson (if you got one a gift, you needed one for both), and a few other friends. Holmes' gifts, much less visually appealing, were labeled—for me (hmm, what could that be?), our landlady's (I picked that out, of course), and since he was largely a solitary man, only for the above I had also bought for. Reading the labels, it suddenly struck me Mycroft's gift was missing. "Holmes?" I asked. "What did you get your brother?"

"Nothing," he answered frankly. I gazed at him in horror. "He's your blood," I reprimanded. "My God, you gave me something and not a thing to your own brother?"

"Watson, we always exchange gifts. I understand this is a token of friendship."

I waved my hand. "That is not the point! The point is Mycroft deserves a gift from his own blood."

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "And what, pray tell, do you suggest I get him on Christmas Eve, when we will most likely be snowed in in an hour?"

I stood, reaching for my coat. "Never mind the snow. We are getting a gift, Holmes. That is final."

"Your leg will not benefit from trekking through the snow all over creation," Holmes reminded me. I sensed concern underneath his curtness.

I paused. "Perhaps we should think of a gift before setting out," I suggested. "A book?"

"Maybe," Holmes said.

"A card?"

"Likely," Holmes admitted.

"Food?"

"I do believe everyone gets that for him," Holmes said.

I sat, thinking.

"I know," Holmes said unexpectedly. "Cashmere."

I blinked.

"Mycroft is a creature of comfort," Holmes explained. "He loves soft fabrics. A client gave him a cashmere scarf years ago and he's worn it down to threads from use. I'll get him a sweater. He'll be pleased and you'll stop your fussing over family ties."

I stood. "Well, let us go get it, then. I doubt you even know where the nearest men's boutique is."

"I certainly do," Holmes said, but made no further protest to my accompanying him.

The affair was quick and oddly painless; Holmes found a sweater we guessed the right size, in a pleasing dark brown, and paid in a matter of twenty minutes.

Unfortunately, Holmes' gloomy predictions of us being snowed in proved very accurate—except we were snowed _out._

"Well," I said.

"Well," said he.

"There's a window we could crawl through," I suggested—there was no way of descending our porch. This was the only unlocked window, but it was the tiniest one as well.

He gestured to me.

"Oh, no—! I'm much larger than you, you ought to go."

He pulled out his change. "We'll flip for it."

Just then, we spotted a shivering street urchin in the alley.

"Son," I called. He made like to run, but we both stopped. "We'll give you a shilling to crawl through this window, land in the sitting room—carefully—and unlock the big windows, open them, and help us in."

"Alrigh', misters," he said. Nimble and quick, he wriggled through and fell into the sitting room. We heard a tinkle of glass and a face appeared at the window. He threw up the window. "Sorry, guv, you left a bunch of bottles in a terrible spot; I tried avoiding it, really."

"I hope Mycroft got me some new beakers," Holmes grumbled as we crawled through the window. "And all this because I had to go get my brother a gift."

**I actually did this one in advance, which is why I like it so much. TOMORROW IS CHRISTMAS EVE! **

**By the way, first person to guess which Calender story I referenced with the bit about the christmas tree wins my love and affection. Heck, maybe that author'll recognize their story! It's in a 13th chapter.**


	24. Invitation

**. From Alice Wright - Mary invites Holmes over for a small Christmas gathering. Her husband hadn't mentioned Holmes' aversion to the holiday or his allergy to mistletoe (bonus points if you can work in the etymology of mistletoe-it speculated that the word comes from the German "Mist" for "dung" and "Tang" for "branch")**

"I sent Mr. Holmes an invitation today," Mary Watson told her husband John, who was reading the rest of the Strand after he had scanned over his latest addition.

"Darling, you can call him Holmes," John said absently. The rest of her sentence registered and he threw the copy down. "You did what, dear?"

"I invited Mr. Holmes to our Christmas dinner," Mary repeated, "And Mrs. Hudson and all the Irregulars as well."

John seemed to both smile in reassurance and grimace in worry. "Mary, I'm afraid Holmes has a terrible…aversion, shall we say, to Christmas."

"Why?" Mary asked, wide-eyed.

"I believe it has something to do with commercialization," Watson speculated. "And, of course, he insists he's allergic to mistletoe."

"Oh dear," Mary sighed. "The parchment the invite was printed on was decorated with holly springs and mistletoe balls. He'll think I was making fun of him! Heaven knows he's already angry with me for whisking you away."

"Holmes likes you fine, Mary, I've told you," Watson assured her. "If there's anyone he ought to angry at it's me for proposing matrimony to begin with. Nevertheless, I ought to go see if he's a cheerful enough mood to grant us his presence tomorrow."

* * *

Holmes gestured to his invite. "Well, Watson, when it said send word by tomorrow at three o' clock I hardly thought you'd come personally to check me off the list."

Watson laughed. "Mary's anxious she's offended you by the mistletoe on the invite. And after I told her you weren't keen on Christmas she really got worried. _Have_ we offended you, old boy?"

Holmes shook his head with a wry smile. "Despite this horrible weather and the masses, I'll attend—only because it's you, Watson. But tell Mary to keep me away from that abdominal mistletoe."

"I don't understand why you loathe it so."

"The name translates into dung branch," Holmes said flatly. "It's a trap for kisses—my old aunt Agatha used to lurk beneath it waiting for me or Mycroft to pass so she could assault us—and furthermore, it makes me cough like a miner."

"No mistletoe," I agreed, smiling. "I trust eggnog doesn't make you break out in hives?"

**Still on schedule. WINNING.**


	25. 1914

**25. Aleine Skyfire - Holmes spends Christmas with Watson's family while Watson is on the Continent in 1914.**

"Please, Holmes. Everyone will miss him less if you're there to tell…stories… and…" Violet Watson struggled to not cry.

'Watson always was the storyteller," Holmes said quietly to the window. "But I'll come, Violet. It'll help me as well. I…" his voice trails off. "I miss him very much."

* * *

"Uncle Holmes!"

Holmes drew himself up in preparation for Watson's four children's full frontal attack. He tentatively patted some heads. "Hello, children. You _have _grown, haven't you?"

"Every day," laughed Violet. "Give him some room, children; he's had a long train ride."

They scampered off him. Henry, the eldest, would be going on ten now. Watson had married in 1902; he and Violet had enjoyed a brief five months of wedded bliss before she announced her pregnancy; the baby was born January 5th, 1904. Watson spoiled Henry shamefully; and he protected him like a mother bear. He had lost a son once, and couldn't bear to lose another.

Henry was a few months past two when another arrived—Helen, Watson's first daughter. Three years after that, two bundles of joy, Alice and Arthur, were born. Holmes joked that Watson was on good terms with the stork.

Watson loved children; in his fifties, he embraced parenthood as much as he had been prepared to in his thirties. Violet, he confided to Holmes, was entirely too young for him, and he didn't care.

Holmes had been persuaded (forced, really, coaxed and threatened by his Boswell) to visit them on their little patch of land north of London. Watson would pick him up from the station in the automobile and drive him out, both talking happily over his domestic joys and inquiring after Holmes' health, work, and daily activities. Watson introduced his old friend to his children as "your Uncle Holmes."

"I'd say Uncle Sherlock, but _I _don't even call you Sherlock," Watson laughed.

"Sherwock!" squawked Helen.

"Good girl," Watson praised, picking her up. Sherlock's name was well-known to them early on; instead of their father telling fairy-tales, he told stories about the Great Detective.

As the years passed, the children would accompany Watson to the station. One trip, a little face peered over the dash. "Hi, Uncle Holmes!"

'Your seven year-old is driving?!" Holmes cried.

Watson grinned. "Don't worry, he drives better than I do."

Watson was deployed in 1914 to Continent. He sent word by letter to each child, his wife, and another to Holmes—he wrote them all weekly— to confirm he could not spend Christmas at home. Violet had come to Holmes, hoping his presence could perk up her children's disappointed faces.

_Holmes,_

Watson wrote,

_They all still believe in Santa Claus, though Henry suspects otherwise. If you say one thing about the improbability of a jolly old man in a red suit giving gifts to all the children and I have to explain in a letter how mad you are, I shall be very cross! Over-indulge in my wife's excellent cooking for me—I suspect my Christmas dinner shall be less enchanting. No doubt the children will ask to hear some of our old adventures. Before I left, I found Helen digging through my old things, reading old editions of the Strand aloud to the twins. Enjoy yourselves, and say a prayer for me. Please, if you or Violet would open the good book to Luke and read the birth of Christ aloud, I'd be much obliged—I've read it to the children for years. One must never forget why we celebrate Christmas. Here, I shall read it, and think of home. _

_Well, I'm off to go make my rounds. I worry after my men, almost as much as I worry over the rest of you. Take care, Holmes, and Merry Christmas to you._

_-Watson_

_From_

Here, the location had been censored out, though Holmes deduced from the envelope it was in France, probably near the Germany border.

So he obliged his old friend—he read and sang and gorged himself and told stories by the fire while the children sipped cocoa and listened. Violet baked cookies and they lay them out for Santa, along with four letters for him. Before bed, they knelt, even Holmes, and bowed their heads in prayer.

"God, take care of Father tonight," Henry said. "May he have a Merry Christmas over there, too."

"Amen," Violet murmured, her voice trembling.

Holmes squeezed his shoulder. "I couldn't have said it better."

* * *

_Dear Watson,_

_Your children's belief in Santa Claus remains intact. _

Holmes paused.

_We all missed you tonight. For as much as you worry about us, we worry tenfold over you. Stay safe, my old friend. _

Stay safe...

***cries* That was sad but in a sweet way. So I invented like, all of this. ACD never names his wife; he never gives us dates; he certainly never mentions kids. But my prompt says family. His parents are clearly dead, as his brother inherited his father's watch; and Watson directly informs us of his brother's death. **

**Here is the basic dates I used as my reference:**

**Married August 9th 1902 (Wife is first mentioned in Illustrious Client, dated September 1902)**

**Henry's birthday: January 5, 1904**

**Helen's birthday: April 19th, 1906.**

**Alice and Arthur's birthday: July 24, 1909**

**MERRY CHRISTMAS!**


	26. Boxing Day

**26. From ImaLateBloomer - Boxing Day**

I awoke to grunts and morning sun. The snow glittered brightly outside. Jack Frost's designs on the window pane were beginning to slide off. Mildly curious to the thumps coming from the sitting room, I donned my dressing gown and wandered in.

"Hullo Watson," Holmes greeted, throwing a fine left hook to the punching bag. "You slept well, I see."

I blinked. "Happy Boxing Day, Holmes. I see you're celebrating in the literal sense."

Holmes jabbed the bag. "Why not? Oh, and Lestrade wants us to go down to the Yard for a gathering of some sort later."

Shaking my head, I went to go get a cup of tea.

**Instead of doing to write something more traditional, I took a play on the holiday's title and ACD's words:**

_**"Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercise's sake. Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was undoubtedly one of the finest boxers of his weight that I have ever seen; but he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save where there was some professional object to be served."** _

**_-"The Adventure of the Yellow Face"_**

**Kiddoes, if before January we hit 100 reviews on this story, I will give my 100th review the right to demand I write their whims for two Tales of 221B chapters, and I'll actually do them within two days of the prompt. You guys know that's a big promise for me! When I say two day it usually ends up being a month! But promise, on time. Hey, I managed it for these, right?**


	27. Ticking Bomb

**From MadameGiry25 - Ticking bomb**

"Holmes, eat," I plead, pushing a plate of piping hot roast beef at him. He proceeded to push it away. Mrs. Hudson looked insulted.

"I'm on a case, Watson, I need to think," he replied.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Fine, then, Holmes. Don't eat for another day. And when you faint during the chase and probably end up needing me to stitch you up again, don't say I didn't warn you. _You are a ticking bomb_."

Holmes sighed. "So overdramatic, Watson."

"Oh, fine, get killed," I grumbled.

To oblige me, he took a sip of his tea.


	28. Carols

**28. I'm Nova—Carols**

I look forward to snow and the season. By all accounts, I am the Crachit to Holmes' Scrooge. But even gloom descends on me. One day descending rapidly on Christmas, I was in a foul mood on my way home from the practice. I was cold, tired, my leg ached, and my work had not been ideal. I stumbled over the ice on my bad leg and smacked into the pavement. For moment, I scowled at the ground, trying to get up, until a teenage girl paused to help me up. "Lemme get you, guv. There you go. Merry Christmas, sir."

"Thank you," I said, quietly amazed at the kindness I had been shown when I was in the depths. "Merry Christmas, miss."

As she waved and hurried off, I heard her start humming The First Noel. And as I started home, I too began to hum. Miraculously, my mood had been lifted.


	29. Yule Log

**ImaLateBloomer - Yule log**

Two shivering figures collapsed over each other on the settee, neither bothering to walk the extra few steps to their individual chairs. Teir hair was wet and lank over their foreheads, their clothes clung to their bodies, and their garments and Watson's mustache were dripping a large percentage of the Thames into their carpet.

Mrs. Hudson hurried in after them, clucking her tongue. "Only you two could fall through the ice into the river," she chided, making up the fire.

"Buh-buh-etter puh-put a yule log on there," Watson quipped. "We'll nuh-need one that big before we're wuh-warm."

"Huh-how about the other kuh-kind of yule logs?" Holmes inquired.

"We require sustenance," Watson pled.

She threw a blanket over them, commanded they go change into new clothes, and brought up a tray of cocoa and _bûche de Noël. _

"God bless you," Watson gasped.

**The Yule log is a European tradition. You burn a huge, hard piece of wood and keep a little for luck. ****_Bûche de Noël _****are French yule log cakes, and having had them before, they're really good.**

**And we're past one hundred reviews! 104, exactly. My winner isss...ENNUI ENIGMA! And hey, since it's the season and all, I'll give the same prize (see Chapter 26 for details, too lazy to type it again) to my 110th reviewer, and 120 if we get there. **

**On the other contest note, nobody's got the specific drabble I was referring to, though since it also happened in Chapter 10 of Festive Frippery, congrats to Medcat and Ennui Enigma. The 13th chapter is in another story...though like Mrs. P said, we've all scorched trees by now...**

**Til tomorrow, chickadees.**


	30. Brrr

**Alice Wright- Holmes hates the cold.**

Holmes stomped in, his hands tinged purple and the tip of his nose red. A chunk of snow fell from his boots as he kicked them off and plopped in front of the warm fire.

"How's the weather treating you?" Watson teased.

Holmes shuddered. "I hate the cold."

Watson paused. "Is that why you wear scarves so much?"

**I don't know why I like to make fun of that scarf so much...**


	31. New Year's Resolutions

**From Werepanther33 - New Year's Eve. Forced to spend the night together by a very determined Watson, Sherlock and Mycroft are doing pretty well until the time comes for the resolutions.**

"We spent Christmas together, you made sure of that," Sherlock Holmes said pleadingly.

"Why are you so opposed to spending time with your own brother?" Watson demanded. "It's not like I'm asking you to kiss him at midnight."

"We have a system! You're ruining the system!"

"Is the system avoid each other until you have to interact about a case?" Watson asked. Holmes knew Watson hadn't been serious, but that was actually pretty accurate.

"Good Lord, all you have to do be cordial, drink champagne, and cheer the New Year. That's all I ask of you."

Holmes sighed as the door opened downstairs. Mycroft had arrived.

As night fell, champagne and sparkling cider was uncorked. Watson had gathered the Yard and their family, past clients, friends, his wife, and the Holmes'. Several irregulars ran around underfoot. Watson insisted Mrs. Hudson join them. The two Holmes brothers rarely just visited each other without the pressing matter of a case overheard, so they mingled with Lestrade and Gregson and MacPherson and Watson and Violet. Watson grabbed back a filched glass of champagne from Wiggins, wo innocently insisted he's thought it was his cider. "Wot's it even taste like?"

Holmes smiled. "Like cider, except this would set someone your size drunk."

Violet laughed. "Don't feel bad dear, I can barely handle champagne myself. I prefer whiskey," she added with a perfectly serious face. Everyone laughed.

"Oi, it's 11:58," Tommy called.

The chatter gradually ceased. Mycroft counted it down. "One minute..."

Everyone joined in at 30. "...29...28...27...26..."

Well, Holmes thought. This foolish social bonding attempt hadn't been so bad, after all.

"...15...14...13...12..."

This hasn't been so bad, after all, Mycroft Holmes thought, counting down with the rest.

"...3...2...1...HAPPY NEW YEAR!" The room became a flurry of confetti and kisses.

Slowly, the party wound down, and it was just the Watsons', the Holmes', the landlady, and the Irregulars, sleeping in strange positions all over the flat. The women were cleaning and Violet was mentioning the farm they had looked at, the children they hoped to have. Mrs. Hudson offered to help her knit some clothes up before the move. The fairer sex are nothing if not generous.

"Any resolutions, old boy?" Watson asked his friend. Holmes shook his head. "Mycroft?" The elder Holmes did the same.

"You could resolve to fix the system," Watson suggested innocently.

Both of them glared.

"The system is fine." "We have a system, Watson."

With that, the two brothers looked up and grinned.

"What about you, Watson?"

"Start acting like a man of my age."

Holmes stared in horror.

"Holmes, I was kidding!"

Mycroft stopped. "No, I do have a resolution."

"What?"

"I'm going to start walking."

Holmes and Watson erupted into laughter.

***cries* It's over! This has been such a great experience, really. And my 110th reviewer is Book girl fan! PM me those ideas! :D 6 away from a another winner, just saying. I'll keep track and PM you. **

**In case anybody on here hasn't seen/doesn't already follow Tales of 221B, I do write drabbles non-Christmas themed. So check that out.**

**Happy New Year, Sherlockians; until next time.**

**-Wordwielder**


End file.
